The name would not leave him.
Aelthar.
It was carved into his skull, his ribs, his bones.
It was not a memory.
Not a title.
It was a claim.
And the Rift had never let go.
Aric sat alone in the war tent, his hands braced against the wooden table.
The candle beside him flickered weakly, barely enough to keep the shadows at bay.
He hadn't slept.
Hadn't even closed his eyes since the Riftborn's visit.
Because the moment he did—
The visions would return.
His body still ached from the last one.
His veins still burned beneath his skin.
And now, in the quiet, in the stillness—
He could hear it.
Not the whispers.
Not the Rift's hum.
Something worse.
A voice he recognized but had never spoken aloud.
His own.
But not his own.
Aelthar.
A king.
A conqueror.
A name he should not know.
And yet—
He did.
His fingers curled into fists.
His breath came slow and controlled.
He would not let this consume him.
Not yet.
Not ever.
But the Rift had already made its move.
And if he did not act soon—
It would be too late.
A shadow passed outside the tent's entrance.
Then—Kael's voice.
Low. Controlled.
But sharp.
"We need to talk."
----
Kael did not wait for permission.
He stepped inside, his cloak streaked with dust and dried blood.
His expression was unreadable.
But his eyes—
His eyes were sharp. Searching.
Not like a friend.
Not like a commander.
But like a man assessing a threat.
Aric exhaled slowly.
"You look like you've been in a fight."
Kael's mouth twitched at the edges.
"Would've been easier if the things we're fighting stayed dead."
Silence.
Kael did not sit.
Did not move.
He just watched.
And Aric felt the weight of it.
Finally, Kael spoke.
"What the hell was that last night?"
Aric already knew what he meant.
The Riftborn.
The message.
The name.
But still—
He kept his voice calm.
"Be more specific."
Kael's jaw tightened.
He took a single step forward.
Not aggressive.
Not hostile.
Just closer.
"He called you Aelthar. And you didn't deny it."
His voice was low, careful.
But beneath it—
There was something dangerous.
Something Aric had never heard before.
Doubt.
Fear.
Not of the Rift.
Not of the enemy.
Of him.
Aric did not look away.
"I didn't deny it because I don't know what it means."
Kael's gaze did not waver.
"Do you?"
The silence between them stretched.
Long enough for the candlelight to flicker.
Long enough for Aric to wonder how much of the truth was already on his face.
Then—
Kael sighed.
Ran a hand through his hair.
Stepped back.
But not far.
Not far enough to be comforted.
"I don't like this."
His voice was lower now. Tired.
"I don't trust him. And I sure as hell don't trust that thing outside."
His eyes flicked to Aric's arms.
To the marks curling up his skin.
"But I need to know if I can still trust you."
Aric's chest tightened.
Because that—
That was the first time Kael had ever questioned him.
And he had no idea how to answer.
Before he could speak—
A horn sounded in the distance.
Low. Deep.
A signal.
Not from the enemy.
Not from the village.
But from something else.
And Aric already knew what it was.
The Riftmarked had come.
----
The fields beyond Eldermere were no longer empty.
They were filled.
Hundreds.
No—thousands.
Figures clad in black armor.
Faces hidden behind smooth, featureless masks.
Some on horseback.
Some on foot.
But none of them moved.
Not toward the village.
Not toward the enemy.
They simply stood.
Waiting.
Watching.
And when Aric stepped onto the wall—
They knelt.
The Riftmarked army bowed.
Thousands of warriors.
Weapons at their sides.
Heads pressed to the dirt.
Not in surrender.
Not in subjugation.
But in worship.
A single figure stood among them.
A man cloaked in Rift-light.
Not the messenger from before.
Someone else.
A general.
A leader.
A believer.
And when he spoke—
His voice was not just his own.
It carried the weight of something much older.
Something Aric had yet to remember.
"We have waited long for our king to return."
His head lifted, eyes shining with Rift blue.
"Aelthar. What are your orders?"
The Rift shuddered above them.
The sky darkened.
And the world held its breath.
Waiting.
Watching.
For Aric to decide.
----
Lira found him standing at the edge of the walls, watching the Riftmarked army kneel.
She didn't speak at first.
Didn't need to.
The tension in the air said enough.
Aric felt her approach.
Not because she was loud.
She was never loud.
But because his body knew.
Even before she spoke—
He could sense her.
The weight of her stare.
The sharpness of her thoughts.
The hesitation in her breath.
"Don't tell me you like this."
Her voice was low, sharp.
Not angry.
Not yet.
But close.
Aric didn't answer.
He just watched the Riftmarked, still kneeling in the fields below.
They weren't moving.
They weren't speaking.
Just waiting.
Like statues.
Like they had done this before.
As if this was not the first time they had bowed to him.
Lira stepped closer.
"You need to send them away."
He turned, slowly.
Met her gaze.
"And if they don't listen?"
She scoffed.
"Then make them listen."
Her fingers tensed at her side.
Her grip twitched toward her sword, but she didn't draw it.
Not yet.
But the meaning was clear.
Aric exhaled.
"Do you think I want this?"
His voice was quiet.
Measured.
But something beneath it was raw.
Something she caught immediately.
Because for the first time—
Her expression softened.
"I don't know."
She looked back at the army.
"But I know you, Aric. And I know this isn't you."
A pause.
Then, softer—
"Not yet."
Aric swallowed.
Because she was right.
And she was wrong.
"If I become something else," he said.
His voice was steady.
"Will you stop me?"
Lira's jaw tensed.
But her answer was immediate.
"Yes."
Aric nodded.
Because that—
That was the answer he had hoped for.
And the answer he feared most.
----
That night, he opened the artifact.
The small, black-silk-wrapped object the Riftborn had given him.
His hands were steady.
His mind was not.
The fabric unraveled like smoke.
Beneath it—
A ring.
Not gold.
Not silver.
Not iron.
But something darker.
Something that did not shine.
It absorbed light rather than reflected it.
The markings on its surface were the same as the ones crawling up his arms.
It was not just an object.
It was a key.
And the moment he touched it—
The world shattered.
A vision slammed into his skull.
Flashes of a city in flames.
A great throne of obsidian and bone.
A crown shattered in two.
A voice, distant yet familiar.
His own.
But not his own.
"I built this world."
The voice was not human.
It was layered, raw, immense.
It shook through his bones.
"And I will burn it down again."
The vision ripped away.
Aric gasped, stumbling back.
The ring was still in his hand.
Cold.
Unmoved.
As if it had not just pulled him through time itself.
As if it had not just shown him what he was.
And what he had done.
His hands trembled.
The Rift's hum was deafening.
And the name was louder than ever.
Aelthar.
----
The Riftborn messenger was waiting.
Standing just beyond the walls as if he had always known Aric would come.
His silver-white hair caught the pale light of the Rift.
His black robes shifted like liquid shadows.
And when Aric stepped forward—
He smiled.
"You remember, don't you?"
His voice was calm. Certain.
As if this had all been decided long ago.
Aric's fingers tightened around the ring.
His throat felt dry.
"I remember pieces."
The Riftborn tilted his head.
"That is enough."
His gaze lowered to the ring in Aric's palm.
"You wear the past. Now, you must accept the future."
Aric's pulse was too loud.
"What future?"
The Riftborn's smile widened.
"The one that has already begun."
He gestured toward the Riftmarked army—
Still kneeling in the fields.
Still waiting.
"They are the first."
His eyes glowed faintly.
"But not the last."
A pause.
Then—
The Riftborn stepped closer.
And for the first time—
His voice lowered.
Not commanding.
Not powerful.
But almost... gentle.
"Do you hear it?"
His gaze searched Aric's.
"The Rift is waking. The world remembers you."
He reached out, barely touching Aric's wrist.
And the markings on his skin pulsed in response.
"They are calling for their king."
Aric's breath came slow. Uneven.
Because he did hear it.
The Rift's hum.
The pull.
The whispers.
And beyond them—
Something worse.
Something deeper.
Not just a memory.
Not just a name.
A prophecy.
One that had begun long before Aric had ever drawn breath.
And now—
It was time to finish it.